In these days in the turning of the season, when so much is raging and swirling–from the weather to the headlines to the principalities and powers, I often wonder where my energy will be replenished, refilled, kept alive. Much come comes from many of my spiritual practices, all being reformed, in my life. However, I am am increasingly aware of how much tonic –energy, renewal, healing–comes from my encounters–face to face, phone to phone, e-mail to e-mail–with people whom I have been given.

Having lived through a cascade of sorrows among my family, friends and the world in this past season, I am buoyed up by these tastes of tonic through the duration:

a piano concert by a friend celebrating her jubilee year

a recommendation of a book I haven’t read or a series on Netflix

a memory shared about my high school or college days

a phone call out of the blue

laughing out loud with someone whose sense of humor is as off-center as mine

an insight into ways to carry the Light in the midst of a darkness

an honest reflection about how things are from another point of view

an adventure trying something that seemed a little scary

prompts from recollections of things past that gave nourishment and hope–old hymns, former spiritual practices

These sips of tonic bring grace and beauty to the living of days that are so easily cluttered with deeds of greed, dishonesty and stories of pain. They bring hope–“Tis Grace that brought me safe this far, and Grace will lead me home.” They are concrete reminders that the Holy One that I follow and trust never slumbers and never sleeps. and that there are no final defeats.

And so I take a turn into a new year of life for me in a week, my intention will be to seek tonic wherever it appears, and to savor it, swirl it around in my mouth before I swallow it, and continue to discover the many ways the God is good..to me, to those I love, and to the worlds God created!

How beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of the one who brings peace, says the prophet, and I would add “along the seashore, in the care facility, tn the church sanctuary, along the streets in the neighborhood, and in the shopping malls.” Too many feet are the bearers of bad tidings. The feet of the peaceful ones are, indeed, welcome, winsome and healing.

I am in awe of those this week whose feet are engaged in marches for reasons of peace–advocacy for DACA students, attention for the fragile in our world, and the strong, weary, persistent feet of the fighters of wind and flame here in Southern California, trying to save lives and home against the seemingly unremitting Santa Ana winds. When I hear footsteps approaching, I long for them to be the the steps of peace bringers, peacemakers, peacekeepers, peace seekers.

I kept company with my community of spirit journeyers yesterday in an Advent retreat, and for a few hours, we reflected on Christ, “the image of the invisible God,” as he walked this earth. Through copies of paintings of artists, we saw Jesus walking with his disciples on the Emmaus Road bringing them peace after their trauma at the crucifixion. We watched Jesus gliding over water to his frightened friends, and then in another painting saw him stop mid-stride when his being sensed the courageous one whose bleeding had kept her on the margins of life for so many years, and sensed her peace as healing flowed into her. This Prince of Peace is the One for whom we are waiting this season. Lady Julian reminds us that “He is our peace, when we ourselves are in un-peace.” We gathered to reflect and share on the stories of the One with peaceful feet that touched and challenged us.

However, I was once again struck with the feet of the very ones sitting in our circle, whose work in the world is so often to bring peace. One of us, while she was with us, was working on finding housing for those in the homeless shelter displaced by the SoCal fires. Another had been that week helping to raise money for the drilling of wells in villages in Niger. Someone else had been caring for family members who are ill, or had gone to the side of one in grief and despair. And each one there had taken herself to the place of being peace for someone else–at home, on-line, over land and sea–in speaking words of peace or in just showing up wordlessly with peaceful presence.

I have seen several mashup posts from movies this week of dancing, all synchronized to a contemporary refrain and beat, and there is joy in seeing Fred Astaire, Julie Andrews, john Travolta and Minnie Mouse, one after the other, swirl and tap out joy with their feet; that energy comes first from a peaceful being. Jesus, looking over Jerusalem, sighed,saying, “Would that you knew the things that made for peace!” We all echo that same sigh. And in this season of Advent while we wait, I am choosing to be the one with beautiful, peaceful feet, whether it is by sitting with my daughter overlooking the ocean as we contemplate the unknown future, or by dancing with my little loved ones for the sheer fun of it, or by taking a staff person in the church to lunch, or by collecting money day by day for the fragile ones further damaged by the fires around us. And the peace of God which passes all understanding will keep my heart and mind…

I am living in a week of surprises! Not all of them have been welcome. In trying to take an airplane flight to San Francisco on Monday, the delays and cancellation diverted us to spontaneous Plan B, which was to embark on an overnight road trip, complete with motel stay, a visit to an old Italian restaurant, and navigating traffic and road repair.

Yet, I found that there was surprising Grace in the change of plans. Despite starting out at the tail end of a holiday weekend, there was almost no traffic going our way as we started out, a welcoming inn in which to stay, a long restorative sleep to be had in comfort. And I found in the recesses of my travel bag, a mystery novel tucked away, which I began to read aloud to my husband, which diverted and kept us amused along the lengthy sojourn the next morning. We often read to each other, but rarely do we read fiction or stay in such contained quarters for so long. For me there was a welcome intimacy in the sharing of space and story.

We arrived in San Francisco on the dot of the time we were to meet beloved friends at the art museum, there to see an exhibit of the artist Edouard Munch. However, we had spare time to wander other exhibits in the newly expanded and appointed museum. The top floor had an exhibit called Sound, a title which did not sound like much art to me, until I saw the exhibit by Celeste Boursier-Mangenot, an installation of ceramic bowls in a broad pond of gently moving water. From the surrounding observation bench, I could hear the slight ting of each bowl as it nudged the one beside it, moving it a little bit forward or to the side, sending it off a new trajectory. I kept being surprised by my fascination as I sat watching, as layers of implication for the world and the way humans live in it coursed through my imagination. What if we were to be a bowl that floated in grace with others, and brought forth a song of delight and grace when we bumped into each other? Wouldn’t that be a surprise!

My surprises were still unfolding. As we entered the warm hospitality which is the hallmark of the home of our friends, I was greeted with the question,
“Are you the surprise lady?” Not quite sure of what was transpiring, I looked at my husband and my friends to discover that this evening was to be a small dinner, very early birthday celebration for me, months in the planing, threads of e-mails streaming through the internet, and memories and pieces of my life gathered from over 40 years. I had my initial beginning anxiety: would it all work? was I dressed for the occasion? and who might appear? And then as I allowed myself to savor the surprise, I prayed that I would be open to receive whatever came as the gift of this generous, extravagant offering of love. As I did the surprises poured out: memories from long ago, shared journeys, laughter, wisdom, hilarity, reflections on my presence and person, surrounded with amazing provisions and touches of charm. And, in a way, in that evening, we became the beautiful ceramic bowls floating in the same sea, touching one another gently, and making beautiful music together. It was a brief, shining moment with which I begin a birthday month and start a new year of life. Not only will I be offering grace notes to each of my companions, but I will be carrying the images with me as source of Hope and Grace.

Even as I savored the beauty and goodness, my family was awaiting medical reports and news from the latest hurricane. Friends were digging out from devastation, managing new paths forward after diagnoses that threatened, navigating situations that seem hopeless, and marching with courage and ardor for justice in the streets of our cities and towns. So I am not confused into thinking that if I just float in Grace that everything will be all right in the world. But I know deeply that I am invited to be open to surprise when it appears, to hang on to its presence firmly, and to let it be Light when I am needing Hope in the Dark!

I was encompassed in silence, a gift I chose that was offered by my church, a six hour retreat on a Saturday morning. The all-purpose room was set side for sacred use–a circle of chairs, a library of books, a table of fresh food, a labyrinth laid out, a cozy room with overstuffed chairs, tables for writing and coloring and then an empty sanctuary, with an icon of Christ surrounded by candles, awaiting to be lit in prayer. After the opening instructions and a reading from the pastor, we spent our next hours in silence.

My routine life is not very noisy. My husband and I don’t create much sound daily as we patter through our retirement ways of being. The loudest eruption is the dog as he tries to keep us safe from post-people and squirrels. Yet there is the hum of appliances, the whoosh of delivery trucks, the ringing of phones, even ones stopped by “nomorobo!” More incessant are the chirps and hums inside me, reminding me it is time to pay a bill, put laundry in the dryer, check on the neighbor down the street. Left to my own devices, I find it hard to enter into Silence. However, dropping into the retreat on Saturday, after I was welcomed warmly by those I knew even slightly, I could rest in the container created for me by the committee–the place, the nourishment, the prompts, the opportunities. It was pure Grace!

I began by breathing, attending to my breath, checking in with my body, and then walking the labyrinth, a tool for prayer that has delighted and served me well for many years in many places. In the deliberateness of the pace, I could recognize the clutter which needed release, listen for a Word coming to me to shape the day, and then I could begin to integrate that Word with what was ahead of me.

After that walk I sat down with my journal and began to note all that was coming up and where my prayers and reflections might go throughout the hours we were in silence. I listened deeply to the sacred text with which we were introduced to the day, gave thanks that I was beloved of God and that angels attended me, even in wilderness. I did some reading in Christine Valters Paintner’s book Wisdom of the Body, which has been my teacher in this Easter and Pentecost season. I spent time in gratitude for all the joy and blessing in my life. I spent time in lament for the losses of which I am so keenly aware–in my own body and experience, in the leaving of those I love, in my anxiety for the frailty of particular persons and the world.

In the stained glass lighting of the sanctuary I felt free to pour out my heart about things unknown ahead of me, for those whose need seem far beyond my capacity to touch, for the broknen-ness of people and systems. I lighted candles for some at the very top of my awareness, even now living with pain and fear.

I was nourished with healthy food, silently companioning others when they chose to sit with me in silence for lunch. Bread for the journey!

My heart turned toward a primary ministry I have now, a group of women who have met together for 10 years. Where are we being led? Who will keep on with us? Can we let go of those who move on? And how does our aging and growing shape what we do? What are we being invited to reflect on in the year ahead?

After the hours of prayer and reflection went by, I came to a place of rest. Sitting comfortably with my eyes closed, I savored in gratitude what had been provided for me in this day. I recognized that my soul was satisfied as with a great feast by having this opportunity to be in the presence of others, yet in silence given the space, time and awareness to hear the voice of the Holy to come to me in particular–for such a time as this!

I am deeply grateful for this time in which I was able to come apart and rest with the Holy in the presence of others on the journey. Savoring. Thankful. A full heart!

I have lost the last month of activity due to a bout with sciatica, which in my case is enabled by a life long habit of walking and sitting out of balance. The right side of my body has been carrying most of the freight of my balance most of my life, and I learned when I first encountered this condition that with physical therapy and exercise, I could amend this imbalance, were I to be faithful to those practices. But, I allowed other, more accessible, more interesting, more appealing activities to overtake those necessary practices, and there it was: a flare up of the old malady.

I am making progress in redressing in imbalance, but was reminded that my own malady is an embodiment of so many things in our world right now. So much is out of balance–in our environment, in our allocation of resources needed for living, in our political processes, in our church identities, in our relationships, in our own calendars and planners, in our own estimate of our own value and worth. How did we get so off kilter? What have we allowed to take over our perspective and values? Where have we allowed ourselves to be pulled and pushed off the Center?

In my recovery as I have tried to re-calibrate my body, I have had to ask two questions. First, how do I keep myself in touch with the core, the organizing One of my life? My discomfort threw me out of my regular extended practices of prayer and reading, so what brief but constant connections do I need to be making? I found that in this time, since I was so focused on my body already, I could really use breath prayer to remember Who made me just the way I am, the Spirit who lives within me to heal, to energize, to teach, to give me Life. I also found that the music of my life was accessible in the heart as I tried to go to sleep, as I walked, as I re-established my patterns of exercise: “Loving God, here I am,””Peace, be still, the storm rages, peace be still,” “Jesus, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly…” In addition sacred words, repeated in my heart kept me on target: In life and in death, I belong to God. I remembered that in my tradition, the first act of spiritual practice is to give thanks, so I resurrected my gratitude list, recalling every day what gifts I was being given: a new iris in the front yard, a surprise phone call, a new author or piece of music, a coming together of a project. Thank you God for everything!

In addition to to my own practices, in order to restore my own balance I need the help of others. In my first attempts to begin healing, I couldn’t walk very far without the help of a companion, usually my husband. I have begun walking around the block now, but having had the occasional setback, I still need to hang on during the treacherous parts of upturned pavement, the sharp turns or the surprise lurches. I have needed to ask people to drive me places that are farther than my leg can sustain. I have needed to invite people to come see me at home, rather than go to them. I need a community of people willing to help me out.

When I look at our global and national imbalance, I am conscious that it is only together that we can restore the balance of Spirit that we need so desperately. Therefore, I am so grateful for every voice that calls us to those practices of prayerful action that turn us toward the Holy One, toward God’s intent for justice with mercy, that articulates our call to speak peace even as we pray for our enemies. I need exemplars to give me courage and a template for returning good in the face of evil, for being peace in the midst of chaos, for bringing wholeness in the broken places; for every one who has made herself heard in this way, I give thanks.

Among the things that this latest physical setback has taught me is the fact that striving toward balance is a constant work in progress. I need to be vigilant and faithful in my exercises, mindful of the way I carry myself, observant of those patterns that let me slide. The day of ultimate perfect eternal balance may not come in my life time, but in my own person and in my participation on the world God made, with the compassion and energy of the community, I need to keep up the holy work of finding balance for the healing of us all.

There is always a gathering of some kind. Jesus said, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there.” Centuries later some wag wrote a book called “Where Two or Three Are Gathered Together, Someone Spills the Milk.” The truth about living our journey of Spirit is that it is always done in the company of others, and sometimes it feels holy, and other times it feels anything but.

This week where I was gathered with two or three:

someone forgot to show up

someone attacked another guest who had a different opinion

someone interrupted the conversation, over and over again

someone was absolutely silent because she could not get a word in

someone made an insensitive judgement about a person close to the heart of another

Yet in those and other gatherings there were some sacred moments as well:

a friend went out of her way to make sure that the one who could not hear so well was sitting close enough so she would not miss out on the fascinating conversation

someone kept his eye out so that he could welcome one who was least familiar with the group practice

a generous heart brought the conversation around to shared memories in which everyone could make a contribution

someone took care to listen to stories from the old days that had been repeated often but seemed to need to be told again

one with an keen eye and a a steady gait came alongside one whose balance was becoming frail

I am musing these days on my journey of Spirit on the ground, which is to say, in my friendships and in my attempts at community. Susan Phillips in her book, The Cultivated Life, (IVP Press, 2015) lists attending to friendship as one of the essential practices that nourishes that journey. The actions that incarnate that practice are : Receiving, self-disclosure and empathy, cultivating insight, calling by name, accompanying through thick and thin, and celebration. As I read them, I think “how hard can that be?” until I look at the ways that I either invite, neglect or reject friendship in my life. Then, I am stunned with how quickly the lists of the hurts and slight arise, as if to warn me off of further risks in friendship. With too much ease I can recall being dropped from a friendship, being slighted in a conversation, feeling wounded at a cavalier remark. And I confess that forgiving generically is much easier than forgiving in particular.

Where to start! I think I need to begin (again!) with some tough realities:

distance and time do affect the way I can tend my friendships and that friends can attend to me

not every friendship is for a lifetime

friendships can morph and change with circumstance and time

people are not always mutually drawn to one another

signing up for friendship makes me vulnerable to disappointment and hurt, as well as great joy and satisfaction.

With those truths before me, I muse on where I am being called to tend my friendship garden right now. Some of the actions that Phillips lists are habitual with me already. However, I can become more attentive to “Receiving,” less wary, less defended and skeptical. I addition I can risk expanding my “trusting self-disclosure” to my well-developed empathy. In this time in our world and in our Church, the biggest call may be to cultivate insights into the multi-layered worlds of another–to listen to another’s tales of beginnings and roads of discovery. What I hear will also lead me, with my cooperation, to greater compassion and greater celebration.

Where two or three are gathered together, the Holy One is present. I am cultivating sensibilities to see and to hear that every time I gather with others.

I have been looking all around me to see signs of new life this Eastertide, and have been energized and delighted by what I have seen. With Ascension Day, we turn into the last days of this season which will end with Pentecost. It is time to look inside to see what the power of the Resurrection has done in me. The ancient practice of Examen is one I use often, especially in the evenings when I can reflect on the day. However, today I can do the examen with an eyes to gratitude in this Easter season: what am I noticing that has been given new life by the Presence of the Spirit?

At my stage of life I have a longitudinal view over the decades of my journey with the Risen Christ that gives me great joy:

I can see that much of my fearfulness as a young person has been transformed into a more familiar trust, something I never imagine would have happened.

I notice that my trigger-speed judgement of others—where they belong, what their motives are, how they are to blame–has been mercifully slowed down, even held in abeyance, until I know more, can see more, and realize once again that I am not given the role of judge.

In concert with that, I have been given much more compassion, as I am learning to bless even the ones who cause my grief. I know it only as a gift, not a result of good intentions or will power.

But I notice changes in me with the clear awareness that God is not finished with me yet. I am living in a chapter of my life in which frailty, brokenness and death are much more pronounced in me, in the people I love and in the world. They come relentlessly, not only to my elders, but to contemporaries and to younger friends. I see tiny seedlings of new life in me, but they need nurture and nourishment. I find I am needing to pray for the graces to ground me as I accompany those I love through the valley of the shadow:

I need stamina to remain faithful in my loving when the road is long and unpredictable, and takes unexpected directions, and when people I presume to know do quite baffling things.

I need deeper trust that the Holy One is continuing to make a way where I don’t always see a a way.

I need to focus on the things most necessary, and not get diverted by things that don’t point me in the right direction, that take me away from first loves, that engage me in fretting and wringing my hands.

I also need to let laughter ring widely and deeply and frequently in my spirit. I want to cultivate that Sarah-spirit, whose laughter might occasionally be inappropriate, but ultimately is a sign of rejoicing in the complex universe that is beloved of God, with thousands of nuances, surprises and curiosities.

I want to cultivate that peaceful way of navigating the world that embodies the knowledge with Lady Julian that all will be well, and all be well and all manner of things will be well.

The coming of rain this week to our parched landscape has reminded me that small shoots of new life require several things: the sunshine of hilarity and gladness because my mourning is so repeatedly turned to laughter; the soaking of the spirit from those who risk telling me the truth; and the rich soil of those who walk and wrestle the journey of Spirit with me. All together they may continue to produce in me a harvest that produces an aroma and a beauty of a rose, or like a rose window, allow the Light of the Risen Christ to shine through. I pray it is so!

I love the vignettes that follow the Resurrection story in the gospels as this reality of a New Life began to sink into the consciousness of the beloved ones of Jesus. I especially love the story of the wandering ones making their way to Emmaus, wrestling with their previous expectations and understandings of of what Jesus said was going to happen and how it fit the paradigms of what they thought they already knew. Jesus joins them, but they are so preoccupied with their questions and presuppositions that they never recognize him. Until they broke bread together at the table. And we read that it was in the breaking of the bread together that they saw him.

Diego Velasquez has an acute lens on that moment in his painting called ‘The Serving Girl,” in display at the National Gallery of Ireland. In the upper left corner of the painting, one can see Jesus and the two questioners sitting at the table about to break bread. But the foreground is filled with the image of the Serving Girl who is providing them with the food, and surely will be washing up afterwards. The two seekers have yet to get it, but she already has recognized that this is Jesus–risen from the dead, walking and talking with them, nourishing them with his very Presence. What is there about sitting at table with another that allows to see deeply and truthfully into the identity of another?

As I have shared meals with other in this first week of Eastertide, some festive celebrations, some intimate tete-a-tetes, some casual coffees, I recognize that knowing and loving another is a full body experience at its best. It is multi-sensory–ambiance matters, from setting to decorations. Tastes sharpen our palates when we share bread–and cheese or jam or pate. “There is communion of more than our bodies when bread is broken and wine drunk,” says the late food writer M.F.K. Fisher. I love the moments when one at the feast says to another, “Here; have a bite of this!,” or “May I just taste your dessert?” Aromas of good cooking that we share allow us a sense of a deep comfort we might call “home,” whether or not our own home had such a great culinary menu.

However, it is the Serving Girl who brings the one thing necessary to the soul-knowing that gives life. She is paying attention. Although no one seems to pay attention to her, as one whose skin color pegs her as an outsider, as one whose status in the household gives her no privilege, as one whose only viewpoint is that from afar–she knows, she trusts, she believes and she smiles in the New Life that she witnesses. All things are new now! Christ is Risen!

I am paying greater attention to those with whom I share a table this Eastertide–making sure that my cell phone is put away, listening for the words spoken and unspoken, taking note of where we meet, of where beauty attends us, of how well we can hear each other. When someone comes to my house, even just for tea, I want each table tryst to be a holy moment, so that I can see with fresh eyes the new creation sitting with me and before me.

And my prayer is that my heart will be that continually open one to the old friend, the new friend, the grieving one, the rejoicing one, the baffled one and the the baffling one. “Come in and stay with me, Lord Jesus.”

Most journeys require us to make stops along the way. I had such a need, maybe more of an invitation, to “come apart and rest for awhile” this week. A group of us who have been meeting for 10 years to muse and to pray took our annual retreat at Casa de Maria (House of Mary) Conference Center, in the centerpiece house (in some ways the Mother House) Immaculate heart Center, to reflect and pray with Anne Lamott’s book Stitches. We drove into the beautiful grounds through an alley of trees, turned into the driveway to which the open-armed Jesus pointed us, and rang the doorbell. Even though we have been there before, the opening of the door, the soft voice of welcome and the stone walls layered with the prayers of the faithful and unfaithful, the seekers and the long-time practitioners, the desperate and the certain, made as aware that we had come into sanctuary for the restoration and the replenishment we needed.

We have come to call ourselves the Ammas, after those mothers of Spirit so long ago who went to the desert to seek to become closer to the Holy One. What we found once again on this retreat was that we were there to receive the mothering care of God in the retreat center itself and in one another. The quiet and gifted staff offered us beautifully appointed beds in which to sleep, spacious windows for enjoying either the light coming in or the Tiepolo sunset over the ocean. The flowering of many plants, the flowing of the streams, the polyphonic bird calls, the buzzing of bees, the scent of fresh air and old oaks brought back memories of earlier days or introduced us to new facets of God’s creation which we had never known were there. The meals imagined and implemented by the Amazing Teresa and her crew likewise satisfied and nourished, even as they introduced us to tastes and textures that we had not imagined heretofore. It was a cradle of Grace and Blessing!

In addition to the place, we also found that we were mothers to one another. Lamott’s second chapter is called “The Overly Sensitive Child.” Not all of us would characterize ourselves that way, yet in remembering our childhoods. our earlier years, over the hours together, some of us became aware of the joys we hold close, the paths from which we have separated, and the wounds we have still carried. We are all grownups now, but in our hours of listening and pondering together, we were able to offer one another some affirmations for each one just the way she is; to weep with one another; to hug and to hold those who mourn; and to laugh uproariously with delight in each other. Although we are all mothers ourselves, grandmothers most of us, we played with scissors, paints, gluesticks, coffee filters, and Magic Markers. We sang together “How Can I Keep From Singing?” We held quiet space after hearing a sacred memoir. And we prayed—for those we love, for our communities, for the world, and for ourselves.

In part it was hard to leave, but another part was ready to go back to the flats where we work and love and are Christ’s hands and feet in the world. Yet, we left knowing that we had been mothered by the Spirit is a way that had fed us for the journey and strengthened us for the days ahead. As we left I remembered in my mind’s eye the sculpture I had met in Santa Fe last Fall on the Museum Plaza called “Mothering.” The Mother holds her child close to her, bringing her into the the wonder and work of the world that lies before her. I felt refreshed and accompanied to go with her after this Rest Stop. I re-enter my work, play and love with a grateful heart!

Pilgrimage has been my metaphor since I was a young woman. Providentially, I learned that image of traveling in faith as one of walking with the Holy One, not as a feat that has to be accomplished or a a goal that had to be achieved. As the late theologian Nelle Morton has said, “The journey is home!” So on this site, I continue a journey begun on another website, but this time I am on my own.

Traveling alone feels risky. However, I am very aware of the Spirit guides that are with me still. In making the transition I have had conversation partners whose questions, probing, and feedback about my blogging have shaped my discernment; they have asked me the hard questions of “why?” and “what are you called to do?” and “where do you experience freedom?” Some are wise ones with much personal experience in listening, then following the Voice of the Beloved as they navigate their way on the journey. Others are pragmatic, expert in technology and practical tips of the social media world. I also have been guided by voices in writing whom I have never met, as I have read poetry, reflections and teaching from writers in this season of Epiphany, those who have led me to pondering what it means to “go home by another way” or those who have invited me to step over the threshold into the next leg of the travel.

I also have as companions on this trek those whose places I frequent with regularity–the congregation with whom I worship, the group of Ammas with whom I meet, and, much to my surprise, I have a virtual community of prayer and reflection on social media and on e-mail. With each group I share prayers, the Word and words that teach me, challenge me and give me hope. No one in this company is taking the exact route that I am taking; some of them are no even aware of my particular route. But when I let myself rest awhile with each of them, I experience bread for the journey, and often, strength for the day.

Another set of companions hovers over this sojourn–the “cloud of witnesses” that has been the agent of Grace that has brought me safe thus far: family members who imprinted me with Christian thought and practice; teachers and models who explained or embodied a “more excellent” way; previous generations of faithful ones whose legacy remains alive and compelling in my heart and life in word, song, and image.

I remain very clear that wherever I go, the Spirit goes with me and lives in me; She is my Teacher, with a voice behind me saying, as Isaiah observed, “This is the way, to the right, or to the left.”

So, as frightening as it seems to set out “alone,” I take this step, knowing that I am in good company, along with all those who read and muse on this blog. Let the adventure continue!